A Stitch in Time
by Psycho Snicket
Summary: Although it may not always be conventional or perfect, the relationship between Olivia Dunham and Peter Bishop is one that can stand the test of time, space and universes. This is a collection of stories honouring that love.
1. Shoelaces

Good day, my fellow Fringies! In this Polivia drought, I thought that I'd take a crack at some good ole' fashioned drabbles to fulfill your aching hearts. These drabbles, while longer than traditional ficlets, are based on a series of words given to me by friends on Tumblr slash real life (lol what be those). They may be sweet or sexy, or maybe even a little angsty if it comes to pass, with varying narration and point of view. But! If and when you choose to indulge in this series of stories, feel free to leave a word or two of your own (and maybe with a review, if you kind folk are so inclined)! Anything can spark the flint of inspiration. I will try to update on a quasi-regular basis, when the wind of creativity decides to blow in my direction. And by that I mean when I get tired of harvesting cyberwheat on Facebook and get crackin' (*Disclaimer: No real cyberwheat was or will ever be harvested during the writing of these stories).

**And on that note, Viva la Polivia!**

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><p><strong>BOOM.<strong>

Olivia shot her arms up to cover her head in an instantaneous, instinctive flash as she heard the sound ring out, shielding her vulnerable face as the giant window pane of a restaurant to her left blew out into a thousand glistening daggers. She felt them hit her like an unrelenting rain storm, a few of them mercilessly ripping through her coat and into her arm. She cried out in pain as she felt a wet warmth beginning to soak her sleeve through. But she bared her teeth and continued sprinting, the sound of her feet rhythmically hitting the pavement keeping her mind focused. Her heart was pounding so hard it was threatening to crack her ribs clean in half and the corners of her vision were beginning to softly blur. She started to slow, fatigue wracking her body, trying to force her to stillness. She leaned over, blonde hair curtaining her pink-tinged cheeks. She rested her palms against her knees as her chest heaved, her lungs desperately demanding the air they were being deprived of. But before she could compose herself, she felt a tug on her sleeve as she was dragged back into her previously abandoned full-on sprint.

"Come on!" Peter yelled over the sound of gunfire, allowing his face to reflect his true concern for her only for a moment before it returned to its icy fierceness. She nodded in silent agreement, the lack of oxygen choking any possible vocal response out of her body. He shifted his iron-banded grip to her hand, anchoring himself to her for dear life, in the most literal of senses.

They propelled themselves forward, legs moving like a raging, well-oiled machine, focusing only on weaving through debris on the abandoned night streets of Boston. Olivia chanced a quick glance over her shoulder, seeing the band of shapeshifters still within a disturbingly close distance. They looked like wild animals, eyes burning ferocious and predatorily, prowling on a hunt. She was pulled back to the reality of her forward momentum as she was whipped left around a corner, anchored from being sent into complete chaos by the strong grip of Peter's hand in hers. Before the shapeshifters rounded the corner, she was yanked down a dark, narrow alley littered with garbage cans. Peter pushed her flush against the coarse brick wall, her back slamming against it roughly. All the remaining air in her body was violently leeched from her, as she gasped like a fish out of water. But Peter slapped his hand over her mouth, quieting her wheezes and steading her shaking body by pinning her even harder with his hips. His gaze was scorching and intense, conveying a sense of urgency and unadulterated fear as he stared straight into her eyes. He forced his face into the crook of her neck, as if trying to physically fuse them together into the wall, so they could disappear into a safe oblivion. In a few short seconds they felt the pack of shapeshifters fly by, a forceful breeze whipping off of them like wind during a tempest. They stood there, heaving against one another as silently as possible, waiting for a calm.

When the sound of their aggressive footsteps had long faded, Peter retracted his face from her neck and backed away from her slightly. Overcome by exhaustion and the numbing pain spreading in her arm, Olivia slowly slid down the wall so she could rest upon the cold and unforgiving ground. Assessing her wounds, she found the source of her pain in an alarmingly large piece of glass sticking out from her torn flesh. In an instance of stupidity, over the sound of Peter's protests, she grabbed the splinter of glass solidly and wrenched it from her arm. Once again her cries of pained frustration rang out as she angrily threw the bloody fragment aside. Olivia watched as Peter quickly sank to one knee, shrugging off his jacket and ripping the sleeve from his grey t-shirt. Quickly and methodically he wrapped the strip of fabric around her upper arm, nursing it with a kind gentility. When he finally looked up from her shoulder, he stared into her eyes, their emerald brilliance shining in the now visible moonlight.

A small, infectious smile crept over his face, making Olivia respond with a soft smirk. In the frenzy of the chase her hair had broken loose of its usual binds, and was now splayed lazily over her shoulders and back like a golden waterfall. He slowly brought his hand up, fingertips lightly brushing her cheek as he pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, evoking an eruption of contradicting goosebumps on Olivia's heated skin. Scanning the length of her slumped body against the wall, Peter's gaze finally stopped at her feet. She watched him curiously as he brought his hands down to investigate. He quietly grabbed her undone shoelaces, and masterfully tied them tightly back into their rightful place. Giving a quick once-over of his work, he finally slapped his hands onto his knees and rose, towering above her in his night-given illumination. She looked up at him as he reached down, offering her a hand.

"How about we get out of here?" he said smoothly with his ever present smirk. She chuckled and gratefully took his hand, grabbing his jacket as her hand slowly slid into his strong grip, hoisting her off her feet. He brushed at her shoulders and sides, wiping the light coat of dirt from her jacket that was unwillingly provided by the dingy alley. She handed him back his discarded jacket, which he carelessly took hold of. When his hands stilled, he reached out again for her hand. She looked down and smiled, before looking up at him fully. Her hand rose to his, fingers slowly meshing with fingers as they quickly walked away back into the mysterious Boston night.

_fin!_


	2. Games

So, this happened. I wasn't really planning on doing one for a couple more days, but you can thank SunnyWinterClouds for this quick, new update! Her incredible support and enthusiasm for my progression in this series of drabbles made the inspiration fairy come to visit. Or... something. Hats off to you, kind madam! Welp, enjoy. If you are so inclined, please review! Because, while I don't want to be a review snob, I must say getting positive feedback (or, you know, feedback in general!) for my stories is a really reinforcing and motivating thing. Plus, if you review, you can give me fun, reader generated words that I could use to write new chapters (since this is a suggestion based set of drabbles, after all). ... That's about it. Happy reading, and Viva la Fringe!

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><p>"… Three, four, five aaaaaaand, six. Pay up Dunham."<p>

Peter cocked his head to the side mischievously as Olivia finished her move, raising an eyebrow and smirking as he reached out his hand. He playfully flicked his fingers upward, gesturing for the exchange of his fairly won spoils. His piercing blue eyes flashed with an arrogant glint as he waited.

Olivia rolled her eyes and huffed as she frustratingly grabbed her stack of fake bills. She slumped in her chair, elbows resting on her knees and swiftly licking her thumb in preparation to fork over her money. She flipped through the slips of paper nonchalantly, as if counting, all the while keeping her eyes locked on his; a fierce, unspoken battle raging from across the game board. Peter was amazed that she hadn't ripped any bills apart in her vigorous and forceful counting, but his overwhelming sense of accomplishment usurped any care he had about it. However it didn't matter if she counted it or not; Olivia had just managed to land on his proudly owned Pennsylvania Avenue. _With_ a hotel. He had robbed her of all she was worth.

When she had concluded possibly the most drawn out stall attempt in the history of recreational board game playing, she reached across the board to slap the bills in Peter's hand. Peter was amused with her as she slumped back onto her chair, crossing her arms and pouting her lips like an irritated child. He knew it was an act, so, determined to better Olivia in her performance of a lifetime, he smoothly leaned back into her plush, beige couch, thumbing through the bills like the seasoned con man he was. When he had completed counting her measly stack, straightening the bills into a neat pile by gently tapping them against his knee, he placed them ever so softly atop his mound of cash. He looked from his earnings to Olivia, presenting her with the widest of smiles, teeth and all. His silent gloating then settled into a content smirk, as he let his hands rest pompously on his stomach.

Olivia shifted in her seat, her arms still crossed stubbornly as she stared Peter down. Just when the intensity of her gaze reached its peak severity and Peter felt like he would spontaneously combust at any moment, Olivia's entire façade melted. Her arms slowly fell from their stony rigidness to a loose rest on the chair's arms. Her full pout softened into calm neutrality, and her furrowed brow rose to its usual place. Then, against every expectation Peter had of Olivia's rebellion, her right eyebrow slowly slid up in a vaguely William Bell-esque manner. The corner of her mouth tugged slightly, morphing her face into a look of pure smugness.

The chair creaked as she carefully rose from the chair, eyebrow raised high by an implicit, sneaky plight. Her head bobbed down ever so slightly, her eyes a blistering jade. She dreamily side-stepped the sturdy oak coffee table that held the contents of her demise, bee-lining straight for the source of her downfall. Peter wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion as she approached, her eyes gleaming with a greedy fervor. Reaching out, she pressed a palm on his shoulder, pushing him back simultaneously lightly and powerfully into the cushions of the couch. Her knees came to rest flush against his thighs, as she clamped his legs tightly. His expression softened into a neutral haze, overtaken by her uncharacteristic ways.

She lowered herself onto him slowly, keeping her gaze constantly locked on his the entire time. She reached up slowly behind her head, grabbing at her hair tie. In one motion she tugged it out of its loyal position and threw it behind her without a thought. She shook her hair out, allowing it to cascade off her shoulders, the ends draping lightly on his face and neck. Her other hand came to rest over his heart, clenching the fabric of his standard grey t-shirt into a ball. The hand that had pinned him to the couch now ceased its pressure so it could come to rest on his back, the fingers firmly grasping the now taught muscles. She leaned in painfully slow, until the tip of her nose gently pressed against his cheek. She tilted her head to the side, angling her mouth to his. Her lips ghosted his, sending an unstoppable wave of chills up his spine. Peter knew he faulted when he took a deep breath, allowing her intoxicating scent to fill his lungs and brain. He grew dizzy with passion, his hands acting on their own accord as they possessively yanked Olivia impossibly closer by her hips. He lazily closed his eyes, and Olivia had to bite her own tongue not to laugh out loud at his unfortunate misstep.

She then seized his lips in hers, sharing a languid kiss as her lips tugged on his. They broke, but only for a millisecond as she hungrily dove back in. Her hand came off his chest to rest in his hair, her fingers curling to lock into it. He pulled her in with his hand resting on her lower back as his other shot up to wrap around her neck, fueled by an overwhelming insatiability. They rocked together in harmony, faces sliding rhythmically to a symphony of audible pops. Just when Olivia began to impatiently run her tongue along the edge of his bottom lip, demanding invitation, did Peter surprisingly pull back completely from Olivia, seizing her by the face with cupped hands. Her lips flushed a passionate scarlet, eyes alight with a blazing fury, hair a wild mess, breathing ragged. A confused look spread over her face as her chest rose, her heart an allegro beat in the otherwise silent room. Only then did Peter allow himself to smile, looking at his beautiful, but twice defeated girlfriend.

"Nice try, but you still lose. Wanna' play another game?"

_fin!_

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><p>OH BOOM. COCKBLOCK'D, YO! I promise I'll make it up to you eventually, or. You can just imagine a delicious extension of this story. I obviously saw the ending as resulting in a new game of Checkers. *cough* Or Olivia smashing the gameboard to the floor. Or them taking advantage of "Free Parking." Or Olivia playing the "Get Into Jail Free" card. Or some other clever play-on-words-quasi-sexual-innuendo-Monopoly-related-type thing. [Insert wink]<p> 


	3. Ring

Wowza! Sorry that took so long to update, had a very busy week full of tests, no sleep, and some questionable decisions. But! Now it's here, wholly edited, and longer than normal to make up for it! These are turning into crazy long drabbles, but, is that a problem? Dancer4life5 suggested a chapter starring Ella, and, SO IT SHALL BE REVIEWED AND SUGGESTED, SO IT SHALL BE DONE. This is on the fluffier side. (*cough* I wanted this to be a O2 drabble after this week's episode a bit. Sigh. *cough*)

Enjoy, all! Now and forever, Viva la Fringe! 

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><p>"… GOOSE! You're it, Peter!"<p>

Ella began running the perimeter of Rachel's backyard, laughing hysterically all the way. Peter sighed exasperatedly while smiling, rising slowly for his seventeenth bout of being "it" while he and Olivia babysat Ella. Olivia tenderly laughed at his slow, tired descent, having only been chosen a handful of times, allowing her the full enjoyment of watching him tirelessly pursue Ella as Goose Number One round after round. He looked at her and smiled, rolling his big crystal eyes and shaking his head. She reciprocated warmly and sympathetically, letting the faintest chuckle escape her lips. She relaxed back onto her elbows, reclining completely onto the grassy ground from her cross-legged sitting position. "I think it's about time you fly south for the winter, or you're going to get left behind," she said mockingly, nodding towards Ella as she sprinted around the boundaries of the yard.

"HEY PETER! YOU'RE THE SLOWEST GOOSE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD!"  
>Ella was already rounding the third corner of the yard's boundaries as she teased, hand running smoothly along the fence as she dashed ahead.<p>

"Oh good lord, I do not like these rules. What ever happened to just running in small, playful circles? Leave it to a Dunham to add complexity to something like Duck, Duck, Goose for enjoyment," Peter said with a smirk, as he began his slow-paced jogging pursuit towards the most energetic and smallest Dunham. He gave his finest, brashest goose honk as he ran towards Ella, attempting to make up for lost time.

Olivia watched as Peter raced closer to Ella, practically on her heels now, their snippets of laughter a mingling echo throughout the expansive yard. She grinned to herself, appreciating the true worth of how lucky she was. Sure, the world was in relentless turmoil and strife. But, here and now, with two of the people she loved most in this world, she was painlessly and incandescently happy; a very intermittent happening in her life thus far.

They were approaching swiftly now, Peter nipping at Ella's sides with nimble tickles, eliciting innocent giggles from the petite girl over the sounds of her objections. But, in the end, Ella beat Peter out, jumping into Olivia's arms, knocking her onto her back. Her dainty arms wound around Olivia's torso, her face resting on Olivia's stomach as she continued to giggle uncontrollably.

"Aunt Liv is safe zone!" She attempted to yelp out between choked chuckles, as Peter progressed in his endless assault at her sides. Peter and Olivia laughed at the little girl, entertained by the light-hearted elation she could always supply them with. Ella then rolled off Olivia onto her back on the ground, raising her arms in defeat and breathing deeply as Olivia elevated herself onto one elbow. Peter desisted, respectfully yielding at Ella's verbal surrender.

"I give up! You cheated! Tickling is against the rules!" Ella exclaimed as she pouted a little, teasingly crossing her arms in artificial frustration. But, before Peter could interject with composed reassurance, her face softened into wholesome joy as she sat up and enthusiastically gasped.

"Hey! I know what you could do to make it up to me!" She said, offering a sly smile. Olivia and Peter looked at one another with confused curiosity, looking back to Ella for answers.

"We can play Marriage! That's my favorite game. I'll be the flower girl and, oh, what's that one guy who does the marrying and talking?" She inquired, looking with a creased brow at Olivia.

"That would be the priest. Like the one that talks when you and Mom go to church," Olivia replied calmly, grinning as Ella let out a long "oh."

"Okay, that guy. I'll be the priest person, and you guys can be the people that get married," she said brightly, regarding both of them. Olivia and Peter shared a kind glance, silently agreeing to humor the young girl. Ella rose hastily, jumping to her feet. She reached out and clutched Olivia and Peter's hands with her small ones, yanking on their hands lightly so they would stand.

They stood up leisurely, connected by the comfortable hold of the tiny girl. When they had scarcely gotten to their feet, Ella began pulling them to a nearby tree in the yard, until the tree's chlorophyllic foliage shaded them from the gleaming midday sun. A lax breeze blew beneath the tree, delicately fluttering the ends of Olivia's hair across her back.

"Okay! This is gonna' be fun. Aunt Liv, you stand there," she said, pointing to a precise location in endless green expanse of grass. "And Peter, you go right here. Wait, wait! Not there! Riiiiight there. THERE! Perfect. Now hold her hands." Peter methodically raised his hands and clasped Olivia's, following Ella's directions, fingers sliding into hers like a glove. Olivia grinned at Peter sheepishly, her cheeks burning the faintest shade of rose as her gaze plunged to her feet. He just persistently stared at her endearingly, smiling softly.

Ella cleared her throat decisively, pushing her chest out and creasing her brow in complete seriousness.

"We are all gathered here today to bring together these two, beautiful people, Aunt Liv and Peter. … I learned that from one of Mom's romantic movies." She admitted, peering at them both proudly. But, her demeanor instantaneously returned to its former significance, and she carried on.

"They are beautiful because I love them, and because they save people every day at the FBIs, and because they buy me ice cream sometimes. But that's not the big part. The big part is that they love each other, and we're here to see them get married and stuff." Ella paused and looked upwards, struggling to recall what came next. Her mouth was drawn up at the side in a baffled expression. Peter, still holding Olivia's hands, leaned slightly down to her and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "_the rings._"

"Oh! Right! The rings! I've got those. I forgot the most important part!" She withdrew the two Ring Pops from her pockets and tore their respective wrappings away, shoving the foil back to its place in her overalls. "I picked strawberry for Aunt Liv and raspberry for Peter! The best kinds! I earned these at school for answering questions about sloths that Walter taught me about." She stated, her pride evident as she passed her prizes to their respectful owners. Olivia and Peter broke their grip to carefully craddle the rings, holding them gently like treasured jewels.

"Okay. Peter, will you take Aunt Liv to be your wife, for forever and a half?" She questioned, voice intensifying.

"Of course I do," he said confidently, nodding and wrinkling his eyebrows at Ella importantly.

"Will you buy her tissues and make her soup when she's sick?" She probed again, adorable solemnity spreading across her face.

"Absolutely! Chicken noodle with stars." He replied, looking at Olivia lovingly. She blushed again, smiling and shifting her gaze to Ella out of trifling embarrassment.

"Nice choice. That's my favorite. Also, will you make sure to love her and hug her when she's sad, and buy her pretty dresses and let her have the good seat at the movies and tell her she's beautiful every day?" She said, her final question weighted with anticipation.

"Every day." He said, chuckling.

"Every SINGLE day? Even the days when she's got gross morning eye boogers?"

"Even more on those days! Every, single day." he turned his head to look at Olivia, gazing directly into her radiant, darkened eyes.

"Until the end of time." His words drew her vision to him, eyes shining beautifully with love. His heart ached with infinite admiration.

"Okay, good. That's awesome!" Ella gave him thumbs up in palpable approval. Olivia purposely pushed the Ring Pop onto Peter's finger, the colbalt blue candy a conspicuous contrast against Peter's skin. Then, Ella turned to Olivia, a sneaky smile spreading across her face. Olivia's eyebrows furrowed, pondering what the little girl was planning, cracking the slightest smile as she tried to figure it out. Ella's face ignited with cheerful happiness as she gave Olivia an enormous grin and shrugged towards Peter.

Olivia looked back, and was astonished to find that Peter was on his knee beholding her from above, beaming broadly. Her smile faded into a stunned expression, her eyes growing wide in disbelief. Peter reached out his hands to hers, and she tentatively took them, her own hands delicately trembling. Peter squeezed them reassuringly to ease her nervousness as Ella cleared her voice yet again.

"And Aunt Liv, will you take Peter? Will you love him for forever and ever and _ever_? … and ever? Will you let him cook breakfast for you sometimes that isn't just plain toast? Will you let him wipe off your tears like you do for me when I cry, and tell him he's smart when he draws all those math pictures when he's working with Walter? And hug and do stuff that married people do all the time?" Ella turned to Peter for an assessment on how she did, and Peter offered a huge thumbs up and a nod of support. She smiled sweetly and humbly, turning back to Olivia for a response.

Olivia, contrary to all better judgment and reason, felt tears begin to well up in her eyes as she shifted on her feet, gaze falling to the ground. Ella looked at her with concern. She turned to Peter, making a stern face and subtly pointing towards Olivia, coaxing him to comfort her. He rose to his feet with grace, hands departing hers to come up to cup her cheeks, gently pulling her gaze up from the disheveled grass to meet his. Her impossibly large eyes had grown with apprehension, focused solely his chest. Her lip quivered when he whipped a rolling tear with the pad of his thumb, caressing her cheeks with profound nurturance.

When her gaze ultimately met his, she saw Peter as he was; the handsome, concrete, effortlessly charming man she had come to enjoy, trust, confide in, and finally, love. He looked at her supportively and strongly, conveying his aforementioned promises wordlessly to her with as much sincerity and certainty and he could muster.

And he wasn't glimmering.

Her conflicted expression melted into a tender smile at this realization, her cheeks flushing for the last time.

"Always," she said breathily, placing her hand over his beating, swelled heart.

"Because you belong with me."

Overcome by emotion, Peter pulled her face into his, colliding her lips with his in a scorching, intense passion. Her hands forcefully wrapped around his wrists, anchoring her to him securely in this moment when she felt as if she would disintegrate with the slightest breeze. The kiss was long and languid, sealing their oath to one another as eternal and infinite. When they heard Ella make a mock gagging noise next to them, they both laughed, jubilant tears brimming the edges of both of their eyes as they smiled against one another's lips. Peter pulled back then to observe her, and he was almost physically taken aback by her beauty. Angelic didn't even do her justice. She was absolutely mesmerizing. He pushed a wind-tousled piece of hair behind her ear, stroking her cheek lightly with his fingertips and gripping her shoulder lovingly.

He then let go of her completely and turned to Ella, bending down to rest on his knee.

"Nice going! You were brilliant," sharing an enthusiastic high five with her. Then, Ella coyly pulled another prize out of her chest pocket, and handed it to Peter. It was a simplistic, but unquestionably gorgeous ring, and she pressed it into the palm of Peter's hand.

Peter stood and faced Olivia, pushing the glassy, translucent ruby Ring Pop onto her finger, followed by the real ring. Olivia chuckled at the utter absurd look of it, but loved it nonetheless. They gazed at one another, sharing an affectionate smile.

"Hooray! Uncle Peter, welcome to the family!" She pulled them in for a snug embrace, her arms draping around their waists as she buried her face into their torsos. Olivia and Peter wrapped their arms around the little girl and one another, resting their foreheads together, and closing their eyes.

"Hey, wait. Can I actually be the flower girl this time?"

_fin!_

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><p>Yep. That happened. Chapter four is already in the works, and should debut soon. Salute!<p> 


	4. Butterfly

Guys, I am SO sorry it took so long to update. My last week has been madness, and I went into an emotion coma after this past Friday. I don't even know what to do with myself STILL with that whole episode. Goodness, Joel and Jeff are in it to kill us violently with sex-frenzies and cuteness.

But! Here's another installment! These are getting progressively longer, something I do not intend to do ever. Usually all the things I want to put in end up just requiring a billion and twelve words slash back story. I didn't have the mental strength to finish the story I'm writing based on Leytivia's suggestion of "Wind Chimes," but it's definitely coming soon! I'm sure of it.

Well, I hope you all enjoy! Viva la Polivia, Fringe, and all related things!

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><p>Peter violently jammed the sixth button on the wall for the fourteenth time, becoming too impatient for the sluggish climb of the hospital's elevator. He was bouncing irritably on his toes and rubbing his clammy palms together, focusing on the escalating friction of his heated skin.<p>

_He should have been there._

"COME ON!" he roared fiercely, the muscles in his neck pulling tautly with the hammering tension bursting behind his temples. He was momentarily pleased that he was the only one in the lift to witness his pained outburst; but he swiftly realized that his frustration would have come regardless, arbitrary bystanders or not. His anguish was fueled by an unrelenting guilt sadistically jabbing at his heart, and it would, and could not be stopped by witnesses.

_He should have been there._

When the doors finally slid open at a mockingly slothful speed, he all but smashed them down in his unstoppable quest to their other side. When he stepped out, the sterile sting of alcohol flooded his senses, burning his eyes and nose, heightening his already perfectly vibrant awareness. He looked over both of his shoulders, seeking out the information desk with an intense concentration that could have made an army lieutenant look like a flippant child. When he finally spotted the station at the far end of the right corridor, he broke out into a solid, hurried stride, his footsteps echoing like gunshots throughout the otherwise silent hall.

_He should have been there._

He infuriatingly shook the thought from his mind once more as he approached the nurse's counter. She was methodically filling out some paperwork, not caring to immediately tend to his needs. Peter pressed his jaw forward agitatedly, struggling to keep his composure in a time when instantaneous response was the lone thing that could keep him from losing his mind. Resting the pen down, the nurse finally raised her head leisurely, a forced smile pulling at her thin lips; but her fake grin immediately fell when she looked upon the stern face of Peter Bishop, the hostile bitterness palpable in his locked jaw and scorching gaze.

"Could you _please _give me the room number of Olivia Dunham?" he spat, the resentment dripping in his acrimonious tone. The nurse paused and gulped, her obviously rehearsed demeanor cracking under the pressure of Peter's urgency. She tentatively sorted through a shuffled pile of clipboards, her fingers now shaking slightly with the burden of his insistence. When she found Olivia's records, she pulled it from its brethren with relieved anxiousness. Quickly scanning the information, she timidly looked up to him to appease his wishes.

"Um… Room 621… sir. Down this hall to… the left, and the th-third door on the right," she squeaked meekly, her gaze immediately dropping down to focus on someone fabricated work.

He nodded his head bluntly and muttered a hasty thank you under his breath as he softly smacked the desk and headed on his way. Normally Peter would have chastised himself for speaking and acting so gruffly to another human being, but he was in no mood for games. This was not a situation that had room for wasted time in any capacity; he was on a mission, and he would be damned if anything would come in the way.

He nervously scanned rooms as he passed by; the stark pallor of everything was unsettling. This calm, neutral haven held bruised, bloodied and broken people, of which had loved ones just like him being crushed with the thoughts of their deteriorated well-being.

As the numbers on the doors converged to her room Peter's pace slowed, hampered by his all-consuming guilt.  
><em><br>He should have been there._

His insides twisted at the thought, rancid bile licking at the bottom of his throat.

He had meant to go to work but had been caught up in the case and wanted to look over the file _one last time_ at home, scouring the information, looking for some unseen factor. Olivia had nodded in acceptance, kissing him on the cheek from his position at the table while pulling her coat on. She had said something about being home at a specific time for dinner, a comment he nonchalantly agreed with as she walked out the door.

The man they were dealing with was of the particularly contemptible variety. A marine biologist, he was responsible for a long string of drownings whilst trying to enact his theory that humans could be mutated into water-breathers. He had an extensive history of violence and rage, taking it out on those around him, regarding them without thought. The FBI had cautioned the team of this man's unrelenting dangerousness, but Olivia and Peter had chalked it up to a warning of protocol and went about their ways.

Only when he got the call roughly an hour from Broyles did he even consider the notion that they had been targets themselves, unknowing participants in a perverted, sadistic game.

When Olivia had parked at Harvard, intending on a brief stop into the lab to consult with Walter on any new findings, he made his ferocious attack. His car streaked across the parking lot at an insurmountably reckless pace, unnoticed by Olivia as she frivolously checked her phone. When his car smashed into hers, the several thousand-pound SUV had been thrown to the air as easily as a pancake during breakfast, leaving a long trail of glass shards and mangled metal in its wake. Thankfully the onslaught _was_ at Harvard, allowing for a throng of unsuspecting students to silently witness the event, and subsequently call upon help at its horrifying conclusion.

Thankfully.

He swallowed helplessly as he reached the door, standing in front of it numbly. He stared at it hard, like it was a cryptic puzzle, or it had just spontaneously caught fire. All that separated him from her now was three inches of pine wood, and the thick, blame-filled air around him. He took a deep breath in, seized the cool brass of the door knob, and slowly pushed open the door.

The sight on the other side was heart-wrenching, and he felt the prickle of tears in his eyes begin instantly. His breath hitched as he excruciatingly soaked in the sight of her.

Olivia lied there, swathed in a sea of standard-grade, cotton sheets. Her form was curling into itself, hugged against the rails of the bed like a terrified child. Her face was a network of already forming dark bruises, punctuated by crimson scratches and lacerations. Her forehead bore a particularly horrid bruise, already bright red and tinged with a constellation of burst blood vessels, a butterfly-bandage sealing a monstrous gash from its irrepressible oozing. Though her face had been wiped clean of blood, it still marred her hair line, a burgundy crust clinging to the hair at her temple. Her lip was split at the side, a purple haze radiating from the cut. Her skin was flushed of its usual glowing luster, an ashy hue contrasting the agonizingly bright wounds. Her hair had been pushed to the side, displaying a soaked bed of gauze wrapped gently around her collarbone. Her robe hung clumsily on her body, the plain design scornfully conflicting with her angry contusions. Her right arm was wrapped in a vibrant blue cast, clunky against the frailness of her body. Her brow was furrowed as she slept, a distant pain plaguing her subconscious; her shallow breathing ragged as she struggled with hidden adversities.

He slowly slipped off his peacoat and rested it on a close-by chair. The television quietly hummed as he looked on, a happy family laughing over some stereotypical sitcom shenanigans. Their freed manner and happy demeanor pulled at his thoughts, teasing him in this morbid scene. He jammed at the power button on the television bitterly, finding solace as the screen faded to oblivion. He then cautiously lifted a chair and placed it right next to her bed, positioning it towards her. Sitting down carefully, he made sure not to cause any unneeded noise. His hands rested strongly on his thighs, gripping his knees forcefully as he looked at her.

A wave of nausea and contempt crashed over him, his thoughts betraying him. He had promised to himself a long time ago he would always protect her, and until this point, he had done a thorough job. But, like a fool blinded by ambition, he had let his constant guard lax in the wake of scientific inquiry and paid the price dearly, the evidence of his indiscretion lying limply before him.

He reached out then, softly grabbing Olivia's left hand. Her skin was as cold as ice, causing his to erupt in uncontrollable goose bumps. He wrapped his long hands around her free hand, encircling it protectively as he tried to allow his usual warmth flow into her frigid skin. He brought her hand to his lips, lazily lingering on her knuckles as he closed his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Olivia," he repeated in a whispered mantra, his throat thick as cotton with choked up emotion. At his words, Olivia flinched slightly, shifting slowly in her bed as the sheets rustled around her. Peter's head snapped up quickly, eyes popping open at the alarming sounds he had not expected. She moaned slightly, the severe pain and agony unmistakable in her voice. She turned on her side even more so, until she was completely facing Peter, her cheek nestled softly into the hospital-grade pillowcase. His brow creased in interest as he watched her alter her position. Then, her eyes opened lethargically, sleep apparent on her worn features. Her green irises looked directly at him, rimmed with a dull hue. When she recognized it was him, her mute expression shifted. Her lip started to quiver marginally, as her lips drew up and tears started to form in her eyes.

"Peter… I'm. I'm so, so sorry. I, I shouldn't. I shouldn't. have, have left t-t-this morn-" she tried to yelp but Peter cut her off, gently pulling her into him, wrapping his arms around her fragile body. He whispered softly into her hair, comforting her through choked sobs. Her unburdened arm listlessly came up, as she weakly fisted at his shirt, feebly pulling at the fabric for comfort. He tenderly laid her back down in her bed as her crying slowed, her eyes now tinged with teary sorrow. He wiped away at her tears with his thumb gingerly, making sure not to disrupt the landscape of discolorations on her face. He brushed a soaked strand of hair away, pushing it behind her ear lightly. She had stopped weeping, all but for some uncontainable hiccupping. He decided then to speak.

"Olivia, you did nothing wrong. You did what you normally do, getting the job done efficiently and effectively. I messed up today, Olivia, not you. I am supposed to keep you safe and I let a mad man make a shit show out of you, and I can't express in words how apologetic I am for that. I know you are perfectly capable of looking after yourself, but I've always tried to be there when you couldn't, and today I failed. I failed you."

She cringed at his words and an unspoken pain that swept across her body, her face contorting. When it had subsided, she reached out to his hand and covered it, her hand trembling slightly.

"Peter, I, I understand. But, it wa-wasn't your f-f-fault. You cou-couldn't have done any, anything to stop that man. He was going to come after us, no matter if we were alone… or, or separate. Don't… don't beat your-yourself up. At least, you're. You're here now and, and that's all I need," she explained exasperatedly, the string of words obviously taxing to her in her current state. He shushed her sympathetically, guiding her to lean back onto her pillows completely. He stood slightly, leaning over to tendering place a kiss on her temple, as Olivia closed her eyes and leaned into his touch as she sighed slightly. Having chosen to limit her words, due to their wholly exhausting usage, Olivia pointed to her cast. Peter looked at it, then back to her, slightly confused.

"How long is that brick gonna' be on your arm?" He asked quizzically, looking at her inquisitively.  
>"Six to eight weeks," she croaked out, her voice breaking with fatigue.<p>

She then nodded to her bedside, trying to pull Peter's gaze to it. Normally she would have done something like this herself, but she was utterly drained, and decided to trade her pride for some help. Peter followed her cues and looked at it, scanning its contents. There were some small containers of non-solid foods, medical supplies, and a marker. He pointed at the food, figuring it was the most logical choice. She delicately shook her head.

"Marker," she said quietly, her tone slowly losing its intensity.

Peter instantly knew what she wanted. He chuckled a little and grabbed the marker. He uncapped it as she offered up her arm, gradually raising it to rest on the tray.

He pondered for a second, thinking about what to do. When an idea finally came to him, he raised the pen to the cast and began his creation, inspiration streaking across his face. He drew it in a place so that, in her current position, Olivia could not see its rendering. She craned her neck interestedly towards him, but found that her efforts were futile.

"You know, butterflies have twelve-thousand eyes. Thousands of little lenses, all trained to give a grand scope of the world and its surroundings," he said smoothly, never looking up from his drawing. His hand floated methodically over the cast, drawing flawless curves and lines.

"It's not even the sheer gorgeousness of their ornate wings, or their gentle but purposeful fluttering across the world that truly makes them beautiful. They live their lives as soldiers, dutifully caring out their pollen-toting purpose day in and day out, so that plants can live to see another day. They live a life of selflessness, constantly working towards the preservation and betterment of their surroundings. They unceasingly put themselves below others, and fight a never-ending battle with evolution to make their time on Earth count. They start life as pupas and caterpillars, rising from the ashes of hampered, struggle-filled beginnings to emerge as conquerors so they can spread their gifts and exquisiteness to the world. That's what makes them beautiful." His hand stilled, and then fell as he capped the marker, sliding it back to its spot. He looked at his work, cocking his head to the side to examine it properly. Only when he nodded in approval did he look up to Olivia, his adoration tangible in his features.

"And what a lovely specimen you are," he said, a smile stretching across his face.

Olivia pulled her substantial arm back to her, stirring with excitement. When she twisted her arm slightly, the picture materialized in all its splendor. He had rendered a black and white butterfly, its wingspan splayed out magnificently, emphasized by wonderfully done and intricate detail. Olivia beamed to herself as Peter leaned forward, delicately kissing her cheek. She rocked with his touch, allowing the moment to linger.

When his lips receded, Olivia closed her eyes and slid into her bed more comfortably. Her head cocked to the side, allowing her to face him even in her sleep. She felt his fingers glide up the fabric of the sheets and intertwine with hers; she grinned to herself and relaxed before allowing sleep to flood her senses, as she contently slid into slumber.

_fin!_

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><p>Uhhhhh huh. Yep. So that. Review mayhaps if you are up to it, because it's always nice to know if what I'm doing is good, bad or ugly. Or some other kind of monster in-between. Have a splendid Valentine's Day, or something! Maybe order some Damiano's and watch cheesy horror movies, eh? Eh? Why not.<p> 


	5. Pee

So... this had to happen. Well, not really, but. After tonight, I had to put my feelings (however minute a portion this satisfied) onto paper. I know this isn't any suggestions of yours or anything, but I thought it'd be maybe a pleasant spin on tonight's happenings. This is after the fact, obviously. SOME SPOILERS FOR 4X13, IF YOU ARE CRYPTIC ENOUGH TO BE ABLE TO DECIPHER THE FOUR SECONDS I INCLUDED I INTO MY DIALOGUE. Yes. Anyways. WHAT A MINDBLOWING EPISODE! I will never be the same. Ever. Ever ever.

Real update is sure to emerge this weekend sometime. I usually write during the week, but these past two have been truly a nightmare to deal with, and I apologize whole-heartedly for my less-than-speedy updating. These are ficlets, they should be easy to do! Lol, I always make them into stories that could even rival an unedited Stephen King manuscript (/end esoteric reference here). VIVA LA FRINGE AND POLIVIA AND CAR KISSING AND OTHER THINGS AS WELL OKAY BYE YOU ARE ALL THE BEST.

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><p>The gravel under the tires of the superfluously massive SUV crunched loudly as Olivia veered off the side of the road into the parking lot of a backwoods gas station. The car bounced slightly as the unsteady rocks shifted beneath the thick tires, shifting from side-to-side to compensate for the tempestuous sea of stone.<p>

Olivia gradually rolled into the closest pump, a dense cloud of dust from the road wafting off the back bumper like a hazy shroud. When the powder and the vehicle had settled, Olivia turned the keys in the ignition, powering down the substantial vehicle. She leaned forward, gently resting her arms on the steering column. Her chin relaxed into the thick leather of the wheel as the placid warmth of the sun caressed her freckled skin. She looked to her right, her cheek connecting with the helm's hide, a smile spreading across her face.

Peter covered his mouth leisurely with a strong hand, visible muscles tensing in his arm as he gazed vacantly ahead, noticeably deep in thought. The trip from Boston to New York, although infrequent in necessity, was excessively lengthy; however, it was a reasonably pleasurable and tranquil journey, always allowing for a comfortable silence to fall between the two as Olivia concentrated on the winding highways and Peter stuck in eased contemplation.

Olivia reached across the expanse of the console, hand softly brushing his shoulder as she pulled him from his potent trance. His hand fell slightly from his mouth as he turned his head, his scorching blue eyes boring holes into her subconscious. His seriousness rapidly faded into a serene grin, as he raised his hand to wrap around her wrist, a firm tether anchoring him to her.

"You wanna' pump the gas, or should I?" she said inquisitively while methodically removing her coat jacket. Peter observed her as she swiftly slid the navy jacket from her slender shoulders, the pale blue, translucent blouse underneath emerging, accenting her curves. Her hair poured over her shoulders in waves, its flaxen sheen radiant in the afternoon sun. She shifted minutely, letting the silk fabric breathe slightly in the sticky heat. Peter smiled at the effortlessness in which she carried herself.

"I'll pump the gas. Besides, we need snacks," he replied nonchalantly, grinning at her mockingly as he clutched the door handle. He heard the simultaneous clicking of her door swinging open as his heel hit the ground, their doors closing in tandem with a definitive bang soon after. They wordlessly shifted past one another in the front of the car, bee-lining for their respective duties. Peter smashed his thumb into the operative buttons on the pump as he approached it, reflexively inserting the nozzle into the gas tank as he flicked off the gas cap with an audible pop. He leaned against the car, his lean back muscles going lax against the heated obsidian body of the SUV as he casually monitored the gas flow.

Olivia trotted across the otherwise abandoned parking lot, her stride sturdy and certain. As she gripped the handle of the store's entrance, Peter called out behind her.

"Don't forget the Red Vines!" he said through a cupped hand, a smile spreading across his face as he lowered it from his mouth to give her an appreciative thumbs-up.

"Alright. I'll just be a quick second, I have to pee first." Oh, the insatiable appetite of the Bishop Boys. She chuckled at him out loud, swinging the door open with sufficient force as an automated bell chimed above her. She strode through the store, scanning its contents while quickly making her way to the restroom. She passed a pubescent teen standing behind the counter, scouring through a fashion magazine as she mindlessly made an ostentatious show of popping her gum. She looked up at Olivia only for a moment, a judgmental eyebrow rising fleetingly before her interest waned, gaze dropping back to the pages. Olivia reached the door of the bathroom, turning the doorknob as she passed through the door. The bathroom was cramped and gaudy, but it was well-maintained and didn't smell like a truck driver's butt crack. Olivia speedily did her business, adhering to her plan to make it back on the road in five minutes or less. They weren't under any specific time constraints, but she didn't want to make a habit of uselessly burning through time that was included into their travels in case of emergency. She washed her hands afterwards, resorting to wiping her hands on her pants in the absence of paper towel.

She was going to hurriedly take a glance at herself in the mirror, but a stony and unyielding pounding on the door halted her intentions. Her senses burned alight, already sparking on high alert. She walked slowly to the door, focusing on the shadow from underneath the door as the persistent raping continued. She trained her hand on her gun, fingers dancing delicately against the holster, ready for obligatory assault. She reached out deliberately to the doorknob, her fingers grasping loosely around the cheap brass. She inhaled deeply, bracing herself mentally and physically for whatever was on the opposing side of the door.

She ripped the door open, preparing to whip out her gun when her eyes fell on the concerned face of Peter Bishop. He was standing there, fists hanging in mid-air; his look peppered with hints of fear. When he saw her, his expression softened into evident relief. He grabbed her by the hem of her shirt, pulling her into him as he wrapped his arms tightly and securely around her.

When the initial shock subsided, Olivia's arms came to snake around his neck, rising up on the tips of her toes to deepen the embrace. When Peter pulled away, he cupped her face with one of his robust hands, his thumb lightly tracing circles on her temple. Olivia rocked back on her heels, lowering herself into his touch.

"Wow, sorry. I guess I have some hang-ups with your incredibly small bladder and choice of sketchy public restrooms," he stated, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Olivia craned upwards to place a chaste kiss on his lips, hand placed over his heart with systematic comfort. She looked at him and beamed, warmed by his apprehension.

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere this time. And if it really worries you, you can always accompany me, although maybe not in that coffin-esque bathroom. Even Dracula would be uncomfortable in there," she replied, her lighthearted tone melting Peter's previous worry. He dropped his hand to hers, clasping them tightly as he pulled her down the aisle towards the sweets. They loaded their arms full of treats and guilty pleasures, subsequently making nippy, playful eye contact as the sullen girl rang up their numerous purchases with a limited care after careful consideration and selection.

"You totally owe me for that scare, Dunham," he replied as they strode across the parking lot and into their behemoth of a car. Olivia raised her eyebrow seductively as she slid into her seat and turned on the SUV, driving away as the sun shimmered against its onyx hood in the stark heat of the day.

_fin!_

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><p>Okay, that's over with. I tried to make it light-hearted! Maybe I'll be eating my words come next Friday. Good lord I hope not. EVERYONE MUST BE OKAY AND BE LOVED AND MAKE SEXYTIEMS OR SOMETHING IDEK BUT IDGAF LOL LMFAO TTFN ACRONYMS. Okay, that's it. Review as always if you are so inclined!<p> 


	6. Lost

FRIIIIICK I AM SO BAD AT GETTING INSPIRED WITH YOUR WORDS, I'M SUCH A BUTT. WITH TWO T'S. It'll happen. SOON. I just become so ambitious with them, because I want you to like them! But damnit, they're coming.

Also, these are getting exponentially longer, basically. I regret nothing, and I hope you don't either. I didn't actually use lost in this, but I hope you get the general idea.

This is one of the first ideas that popped into my head when I decided to undertake this project, and I find that I'm satisfied. I hope you are too.

Have a fantastic Monday, all! Hope it is full of splendid things, happy times, and also maybe a giraffe in a zoot suit. But definitelyprobably the first two.

WITHOUT FURTHER ADO... 

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><p>Olivia's fingers tightened even more so against the rigid leather of the steering wheel, her knuckles flushing an aching white as she waited at a stoplight. Her gaze was trained forward into the hurried bustle of the external world, but her thoughts were yanking her mind elsewhere, caging her deliberately with exponential apprehension. The cars sprinting by melted into a distorted blur, an assembly of lights, sounds and colors streaking by in cohesive chaos. The occasional horn blast or whip of an impatient gust from a passing vehicle reverberated off her subconscious, setting her body on edge and hair on end.<p>

_She had been beckoned to work by Broyles in the early morning, subtly demanding her assistance in a strictly FBI-protocol-based mission, a very un-noteworthy and painfully ordinary case. Her day was punctuated by meaningless paperwork, investigative inquiry, and several cups of coffee, creeping by at a brutishly slow pace. Nearing the conclusion of her work she decided, despite the persistent protests of Broyles, she would proceed to the victim's house unaccompanied to wrap up any departmentally-required closure. He nodded with solemn acceptance, jaw tightened with the understanding that he would not be able to sway Olivia Dunham of this resolution, having learned a great time ago of her steadfast stubbornness. Left alone at her desk, Olivia finalized some travel receipts and general documentation, pulling off her dark-framed glasses in approval as she punctuated the last sentence in her report. She pushed herself back from her desk and headed to her car, intending to get this meeting over with in time to meet Peter back at the Bishop residence before dinner's appropriate period had passed. _

_When she arrived at the victim's house after a moderately extensive drive, she stepped out of her car in front of a picturesque Victorian. The scenic neighborhood was endearing and aesthetically pleasing; the streets were carefully paved, lined with passive reminders about roadside safety and a smattering of domestic fencing. Flora was plentiful, framing gorgeous vintage homes with a rustic, classic beauty. Olivia straightened her blazer and smoothed her hair back as she approached the door, walking up the flawlessly painted steps of the residence's porch. She toughly knocked on the door once, allowing her gaze to drop to her shoes as she waited for a response. The door sluggishly crept open to reveal a woman, her eyes reflecting a broken anguish as she looked upon Olivia. Olivia, having been equipped with a customary, procedural smile felt her demeanor crumble somewhat at the sight of the woman, her form drooped and listing, appearing as if the weight of Atlas had been involuntarily enforced upon her. _

"_Are you, Mrs. Ophelia Dellum?" Olivia questioned delicately, arms anchored behind her back diplomatically to convey a semblance of authority. The woman merely nodded, silent suffering tugging on her aged features._

"_Would you mind if I came in and asked you a few questions?" Olivia continued hesitantly, shining a gentle smile at her in hopes of effective persuasion. Mrs. Dellum squeaked out an affirmation, turning away as she did so to lead Olivia farther into her domain. _

This marked the beginning of the assault on Olivia's emotional well-being.

Olivia chastised herself as the light turned green, slinking forward into the methodical haste of the traffic. She should never have gone to that woman's home; why did she need so resolutely to do things on her own? If she had permitted Broyles to come, or let him confront solitarily, she wouldn't presently be fracturing into a restless mess. She rubbed her forehead forcefully, trying to keep the emotion coursing through her body at bay; however, it was tearing through her like wild fire, a gradual swelling of uncontrollable fret and panic. Her frenzied heart was pounding against her ribs, forcing her to take staggered, meager breaths.

_She had answered Olivia's queries with concrete precision, a dull mantra that presented itself as if tirelessly rehearsed. She worked through Olivia's review like an assembly line employee, seamlessly shifting from one question to the next without a hitch. When the conversation had reached its conclusion and Olivia was convinced her job was complete, slapping her hands on her knees with resolve, did the speak candidly, a low sputter stark in contrast to her previous, mechanical responses. _

"_He was my best friend, Agent Dunham. We had spent thirty-four happy and fulfilling years together. … And it wasn't easy getting there, either, let me tell you," she stopped, shifting in her chair before continuing. "In the beginning, there was an instant spark; that old, black magic that descends upon two people as they look across a crowded room. But because of our jobs, lives and circumstances at the time, we couldn't be together. We spent a long time denying ourselves of one another, convincing with little success that we weren't meant to be through lingering stares, occasional contact and subtle compliments. Then, one day suddenly, he was trouble. Doing what I knew I had to, I rushed to his side and aided him, finding a true opportunity to voice my admirations. Our feelings burst forth like a broken damn, flooding our minds and hearts as we stole our first kiss." _

_She smiled tenderly to herself as Olivia gulped uneasily in her chair, wringing her hands as she sat in stillness for her to carry on. _

"_Unfortunately, soon after we were ripped apart again by fate; another woman came into his life, tempting him with triumph as I tried to make it back to him. His judgment faltered, and his missteps led him to her. When I came back to him, he told me about her presence," her eyes flashed away, tinged with instantaneous wetness at the distant memory. "I thought my heart would never heal. Traces of her bled through, poisoning what we had and what we had waited so long for. He tried to appeal to me and apologize, but I had withdrawn into myself and shut him out. My chest ached from the time I woke up in the morning until my tears subsided into restless slumber. Over time, my scars healed and softened. He gave me my distance, but still unwaveringly tried to explain his falters as being a result of his love for me, not for the other. It seemed unforgivable, but my pain began to wane. One day, I met a woman out of necessary circumstances. She far surpassed me in judgment and experience, but she took the time to show me that I was going to be fine, and love could overcome any obstacle or distance. She instilled me with hope and a reignited, tentative curiosity; that night I went to his home and nervously professed my forgiveness and interest in an alcohol-tinged release of inhibition, to which he eagerly accepted. Since then, we've had our difficulties. People, places and time itself tried to keep us apart, unceasingly pulling at our heels to isolate us. But, in the end, we always found our way back to one another. And now, the man I love with all my being, from the depths of my soul on up, is gone. He was taken from me in the night by a man who was too wrapped up in his own possession and greedy pursuits to allow my Paul to live. I will never see the depth of love behind his shining green eyes, or let him whisper his never-ending promises of love in my ear ever again." _

_Olivia felt her lip quiver faintly, as her chest tautened with impossible strain. Mrs. Dellum looked from across the table at Olivia as her reminiscent trance dispersed, noticing her distress. Her hand slowly crept across the flat expanse of the table's surface, until her hand came to rest delicately on Olivia's fidgety wrists, giving them a soft squeeze of reassurance. Her face cracked into a tiny grin, trying her best to ease her younger counterpart, realizing only then the stress her story had caused her. Olivia weakly returned the smile with a fleeting smirk of her own, attempting to maintain a professional air even though her nerves were fraying as milliseconds ticked by. _

"_I'm sorry, Agent Dunham. That was out of bounds of me to impose on you. But, please. If you love someone dearly, cherish them every single day; even when you feel like you couldn't be more irritated or frustrated with them, let them know you care. I fought an uphill battle with Paul our entire time together, but during the tranquility of the night, right on the precipice of a new day bursting with promise, we would pledge our vow to one another once more, for forever."_

Mrs. Dullem's words had resonated in her bones; starting with a gentle pulse, now ascending to a violent rattle, her bones vibrating aggressively as she converged to Peter's presence. She couldn't handle it; the woman's testimonial struck so close to home, irrefutable parallels forming as her story continued on. Olivia and Peter had suffered an equally tempestuous journey, and in this moment, her sureness of their safety had been washed over by a blistering river of doubt. Mrs. Dullem and her husband had been so soundly secure, and in an instant, they were torn from one another by some cruel, nonchalant wave of Fate's unforgiving hand. She hadn't spoken to Peter all day, and the unpredictable nature of living had taken its chokehold on Olivia's innards, leeching all calm from her mind. This reaction as so aversive and uncharacteristic, she had a hard time understanding, and subsequently controlling it. Her imperative insistence could only be described by the unexplainable bond between two people who know and love one another better than anyone else in the world.

She had nearly reached his home, turning off the express way with unstoppable urgency. She focused on the forward momentum of her car as the only solace for her racing thoughts, the wheels revolving madly underneath her, carrying her hastily towards her destination.

When she reached his street, her heart rate reached its peak, fluttering frantically against her sternum. She barely stopped the car as she hopped out of it, slamming the door indifferently as she looked up at the house. She marched briskly up the walkway, strides widening as her concern climaxed. She reached the door, fumbling with the keys in her shaking hands as she attempted to summon them. When she finally grasped them, she thrust them into the door and pushed it open with a shoulder's worth of unnecessary vigor.

She stumbled into the foyer, steps echoing through the sturdy wooden floorboards like cannon shots. The house was calm, impregnated with a peaceful stillness. Olivia peered around the corners of the rooms, gazing into the bilaterally split living room to no avail, proceeding into the kitchen with alarm. Her hand slid over the marble countertop of the table, looking for any signs of a presence. A lone cup of cool coffee stood valiantly, a fragile contrast against the solidness of its surface. Otherwise, there was nothing.

"Peter? Walter?" Olivia cried out, her apprehension intensifying when there was no reply. She assumed Walter was still at the lab, presumably spending his down time concocting a new recipe for a peanut butter milkshake or drug-tripping, but Peter remained unaccounted for. As she approached the staircase, fueled by heightened disquiet, she finally heard a noise. A soft hiss came from above, a discreet whisper mingling with the muteness. At the sound Olivia sprang into motion, all but galloping up the stairs towards the source of the distant purr, her foot fall deafeningly obtrusive to her previously idle ear drums.

She rounded the corner on the stairs, and immediately recognized the sound as having originated from the bathroom.

"Peter!" she called out, her stomach releasing an armada of butterflies in boundless hope.

Olivia usually was a conspicuous person in her personal life, but at this juncture she was far from having the capacity to make characteristic choices. As she neared, she didn't even bother to stop and knock as she slammed open the door.

Staggering into the heavy veil of steam, a thick humidity filling her lungs, she looked at the silhouette cast on the shower curtain only for a split second before her breath hitched in disbelief.

Pushing back the thin layer of plastic, Olivia kicked off her shoes and leapt into the shower, all reserve gone with the wind. She wrapped her arms around Peter's waist powerfully as he jumped in surprise, placing a quick kiss on his shoulder and resting her cheek on his slick back. She closed her eyes in overwhelming relief, her brow furrowed in palpable gratefulness. The water of the shower cascaded onto her with unyielding drive, soaking her hair and clothes through ceaselessly.

She felt Peter snake his fingers through hers, seizing her hands tightly in his against his bare chest. Olivia remained as firm as a mountain, allowing herself to drink in the wholesome feel of his skin underneath hers, and his affirming clutch.

Breaking his grasp on her, Peter gently spun around in her arms, keeping her incredibly close all the while. His arms draped over her shoulder and around her waist, pulling her impossibly nearer underneath the shower's steady stream. Olivia pressed her face into the crook of his neck, letting the water wash serenely down her face to carry her strain away. His stubble scratched against her cheek, freeing her passionate surge of emotion to burst forward uninhibited. Peter's hand came to rest on the back of her neck, holding her into his chest with as much care as he could muster.

"I've got you," he breathed into her ear, his soft refrain breaking down the pent-up wear on her mind as he stroked her hair. His hands then rose to her face, cupping her cheeks in his substantial grip as he pulled her away from his shoulder. She looked up at him, lips pouting with ghosts of grief. He brushed the dripping strands of hair off her face with his thumbs, cradling her head in his hands.

For a brief moment in time, all they saw were one another.

Her hands suddenly shot off his back, arms wrapping around his neck as she pulled him into a fierce kiss. Her body arched against his in a natural bend, connecting to him as resoundingly as possible. His fingers interlaced with her damp hair, their grazing lips mingling with the waterfall of liquid spilling down their joined faces. They roamed freely, exploring one another's mouths passionately, hungrily satiating a boiling need. He ripped at her blazer, pushing the sodden garment off of her as it fell to the shower's bed with a splash, an instantaneous weight lifting from her shoulders. Peter immediately noticed the fire scorching behind Olivia's motives as abnormal, her potent nips and tugs a tad too forceful and pressing. Her pecks wandered from his lips, trailing up his jaw and into the hollow of his neck, a burst of distinctive pops left in her wake. Her fever slowed as her head returned to his chest, her forehead resting firmly against the expanse of his broad chest, peppering it with nimble kisses. Peter gently enclosed Olivia in his arms once more, towing her back into the full of him. He rested his chin on the top of her hair, rubbing her back with possessive attention.

"Peter?" she spoke timidly, her breath hazy against the crook of his neck.

"Hmmm?" he replied lazily, drawing circles into her ever-relaxing muscles.

"Please promise to never leave me," she stated, her tone tinged with pleading need.

"I promise," he cooed, grabbing her face in his hands again to look at her fully.

She looked up at him, gaze encumbered by an unwavering gratitude. A smile streaked across her face, as the token Bishop smirk spread across his.

He pulled her in for a generous, languid kiss.

Olivia smiled against his mouth, mentally checking-off the day as a successful venture of displaying her adoration.

_fin!_

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><p>INSERT CLOSING NOTE BLAH REVIEWS IF YOU WANT BLAH YOU GUYS RULE BLAH I AM INELOQUENT BLAH ALL THE LOVES NO BLAH THERE, YO. 3 No but seriously, you all are glorious.<p>

[Insert obligatory VIVA LA FRINGE here!]


	7. Biology

ON BREAK, FINALLY! Goodness, hallelujah.

But! I've realized recently that the pull to this story and its contents have been hampered by the fact that I end up being overly ambitious. So, in the wake of this realization, I've decided I'm going to adhere more strongly to the true nature of a drabble series, and keep these puppies short with an _occasional_ novel like the one I write.

... Oh lord, who am I joking. I'm probably going to write another epic in a couple of chapters.

BUT, I DO WANT TO GET TO YOUR SUGGESTIONS, AS I'VE SAID BEFORE, AND DAMNIT IT WILL HAPPEN. BECAUSE I ADORE EVERY ONE OF YOU AND YOUR REVIEWS AND SUGGESTIONS AND TIME SPENT ON MY STUPID BUTT'S ATTEMPTS AT STORY-TELLING.

So, without further ado, there's this thing. Not straight-forward Polivia, but Polivia nonetheless (gotta' keep it creative! Can't keep writing potentially smutty shower scenes all the time! *cough* Even though I know you lovable poopsies want that. *cough*)

Enjoy, loves! 

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><p>The idle doodles formulating in the margins of her notes were the only thing keeping Olivia awake. She could feel sleep pulling at her eyelids, softening the speed of her constantly racing thoughts and leeching the stress from her often taught body; but, even in her fatigue-induced daze, she still remained rigid in her seat, shoulders facing squarely towards the monotonous drone of the weathered scholarly man at the head of the class.<p>

She had known better than to schedule a biology lecture with accompanying lab at eight in the morning on Mondays, but it was the only convenient slot in her schedule to make way for her required criminal justice classes. She had considered taking a music class to alleviate some stress, but with fleeting experience on the Oboe and a generally unexpressed appreciation for music, she had decided to knock out some pre-requisites. Too bad this was a nightmare of unexpected proportions.

She shook her head violently in a futile attempt to wake up, blinking her eyes forcefully and taking a few deep breaths to buffer the already challenging effort to stay conscious. She felt her grip on her pencil slacken, the graphite leaving a gentle trail in its wake across the unblemished page. Only when her professor accidentally sent one of his textbooks crashing down from his podium did full alertness return to her, flooding her senses with alarming urgency.

The flustered man picked up his book with palpable embarrassment, nervously placing it back in its rightful spot. He cleared his throat hastily, diverting his attention back to the prepared lecture.

"Mendelian inheritance is composed of a series of gene combinations, the genotypes, and observable, physical characteristics of an individual, phenotypes. Phenotypes are expressed in the homozygote dominant, homozygote recessive, or the heterozygote. Alleles form through..."

Olivia's gaze fell back to her paper, where she was unconsciously constructing an intricate web of contours, complex spirals arching around the disjointed words of her notes. Her photographic memory had the ability to hinder her academic experience; she frequently zoned out from the formal lectures of her instructors, allowing her mind to wander as her hand frivolously glided over the expanse of her impromptu paper canvas. Thankfully, she was always able to excel regardless of her distractibility, fueled by her intense passion and desire to one day work to protect those who could not do so for themselves. Only certain days, such as this one, did her dreams of the FBI seem so far away.

"… In the case of incomplete dominance, for some traits the heterozygote has a phenotype that is intermediate between those of the homozygous parents. Which, simply put means this: If a red tulip and a white tulip are cross-bred, a heterozygous flower will emerge half of the time, a beautiful pink flower rising from the earth in all of its glowing splendor."

Olivia felt an unstoppable wave of euphoria surge up her spine, a gripping security overwhelming her to near tears. She felt the source of this fierce emotional storm buried deep within, a boiling, juvenile urge long-suppressed. She was taken aback by the notion that everyone else in the vast hall was conducting themselves in a stereotypical and unaffected manner, in light of her current, detached state. An innate fury throbbed against her chest, rattling her sternum, a potent force tearing at the edges of her carefully constructed presentation. The room was an inferno, blistering her neurons in a tidal wave of unyielding familiarity. The sense of protection and comfort was ephemeral but zealous, universally reassuring and frenzied at the same time.

Her mind was a sea of tender white in an inky abyss, softly bending to a mild breeze; constellations of radiant lights illuminating the corners of her mind. But, above all of these consuming stimuli, she saw eyes.

Two crystal blue eyes scorched the precipice of her mind, a hypnotic lure distracting her in entirety from droning reality.

It was such a foreign feeling for Olivia, to feel so calm in a characteristically tempestuous life. But, something about those eyes tore through her, spilling through her veins like a languid afternoon sun shine.

Although she knew in no way what they meant to her, her mind was at ease.

Because in those eyes, in that transient moment, she felt whole.

_fin!_

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><p>I believe so firmly that at the fundamental basis of both Peter and Olivia, they complete one another, in a strictly non-Joker kind of way. I HAVE BEEN DOING SOME SERIOUS OLIVIA-WHUMPIN' LATELY. Gotta' get back to my blue-eyed bb and write him somethin' good and fine. AND I SHALL, I SWEAR. ALL THE AMBITIONS DO I HAVE. Get ready for a storm of updates in this next week (<em>hopefully<em>) because I'll be free-timin' like mad (_hopefully_) and not hung-up by the fart-tastic scholastic obligations I am normally bound to (_hopefully hopefully_).


	8. Smoothie

Wow, wow, **wow.** I am so sorry for taking so long to update. Life is crazy, the times they are a'changin', and my professors just really love the idea of making me have to sit in my roomcave under a pile of books, completing their disgusting burden of schoolwork. So, today's story is brought to you by Teachers; because who needs a social life anyhow?

But, yeah. Here you go. I read a book recently that has a kind of drabble-y feel to it, and I liked the format of it, so I may change it up here. But, who knows? I'm feelin' this still, whatever this may be.

Anyhow, enjoy as always, Viva la Fringe, and all that Gene.

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><p>Walter looked up from his work as the thump of the lab's doors closing reverberated off of the walls in a jarring echo. Peter and Olivia strutted in, swathed in their warmest attire; cheeks still flushed a light rose from the unforgiving wind of the biting winter's day. A laugh surged between them, lighting up the room with palpable jubilance. Walter grinned as he worked intently on infusing novel and rousing tastes into chewing gum during his spare lab time, putting the finishing touches on the robust taste of his pork chop and mint jelly concoction before testing it.<p>

Peter beamed as he approached, hands ceremoniously shoved into the depths of his pockets.

"Hey Walter, we just stopped by to grab those samples we had you prepare," he said nonchalantly, jabbing a thumb towards the expected location of the specimens as he purposefully swaggered towards the lab table opposite Walter, Olivia at his heels.

Peter looked at the table's surface, brow furrowed as his gaze roamed the contents of the bench for the desired vials. Olivia assisted in the search, shifting through papers and glassware, knowing very well that a Walter Workspace was always a catastrophe of paramount proportions. Peter's eyes fell on the centrifuge in front of him finally, nodding to Olivia wordlessly to designate his findings. She moved in close to him, ready to help if need be.

"Alright, son. But, when you've collected what you need, I have to show you something very ex- WAIT PETER DON'T!"

But before Peter could heed his father's warning, he unfastened the rumbling centrifuge to a cannon shot of gooey, red substance to the face. He and Olivia's reaction time was nearly nonexistent as they were violently slapped by the viscous, mid-recoil. Knowing very well the sludge covering their faces, hair and general entirety could be anything under the sun, they both stood erect, faces pulled impossibly taut in an attempt to delay any kind of contamination.

"Oh! You both! My eggplant-gooseberry smoothie was almost complete! Didn't you see the vials sitting over there on the chair?" Walter replied in a frustrated tone, huffing under his breath as they both turned on the spot to face him.

"I'll go get towels. You hooligans STAY THERE," Walter chastised as he walked from his desk, presumably venturing to the janitor's closet down the hall from the lab.

"You know, in terms of crap we've been hit with during our time in Fringe Division, I'd say exotic, fruity drinks are acceptable. At least there were no people chunks involved," Peter said, his reply dripping with ritualistic sarcasm.

Olivia chuckled while she felt Peter's gentle hand brush over her eyes as he smeared the beverage away, allowing her to finally unclench the muscles in her face and see him. He had gotten the brunt of the fiery assault, the ruby contents dripping off his chin at an unyielding pace as they fell sloppily to the floor. Their laughs mingled as she removed her leather gloves and dropped them on the table, carefully making sure not to spread any of the goopy mess. She ran her hands over his face, whisking away some the gunk and lazily spraying it on the ground with a flick of her wrist. Peter brought his own fingers to her hair, tousling the mess out of the stained tendrils framing her face. In one swift motion he cupped her cheeks and pulled her in, lips softly mingling with hers in light-hearted amusement. She yanked at his lapels, towing him closer as the smoothie squelched through her fingers. Their faces slid in unison, sticking to one another's occasionally from the blending sugary paste.

When they split with an audible squish, Peter smacked his lips ostentatiously in mock curiosity.

"Hey, that's not actually that bad. But, as Walter always says, you gotta' try something more than once to get a true measure of a taste," he exclaimed coyly as he wrapped his arms around her, a mischievous smile spreading across his soaked features.

For once, Olivia could actually get behind the ludicrous rambles fueled by the Bishop Stomach.

_fin!_

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><p>Bleeeeeep blorp. Suggestions as always, AND I WILL GET TO THOSE SOONVENTUALLY. SUMMER, OH SUMMER, COME TO ME. Also '.<p> 


	9. Dream

**A/N: **Hi! Hi, hi. Sorry. Um. I'm... awful at updating, and I know it. I spend the majority of my time on here apologizing for my lack of updates, but I never truly feel okay about not doing so. You are all very kind with your reading, favorite-habits and reviewing, and I am beyond grateful. I'm not the best at this hooplah, but you all make it worth while, in my feeble little brain at least, with your kind words and support.

This is for my friend, who has been an unyielding support system for me through my times of writer's jank. COO-COO-CA-CHA! She also suggested the word. I am workin' on those requests, I promise.

Ennnnnjoooyyyy, and veeba lab fryngeh, or something!

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><p>Peter slowly came to, easing into cognizance. He began to open his eyes, but blinked back in pain as an onslaught of blinding light seared his retinas. Accepting his hard-learned lessons with an accompanying wince, he hesitantly braved a second attempt. His eyes fluttered open, brow creased in deliberate carefulness, to a full view of his surroundings. As he drank in the scenery, his senses flooded with rich stimulation. The glimmering sun perched high above his head gently warmed his cheeks, a cloudless sky stretching endlessly in all directions. The air was crisp and permeating; he could feel it clinging to the damp threads of his clothing. A whisp of steam punctuated each of his steady exhalations, feebly signaling the surrounding freeze. His nostrils were assaulted by a potent, acrid stench of cedar, intensified by the subtle smell of moisture. He knew this smell, this sky, the biting chill of this tundra.<p>

He jolted to a sitting position, balancing himself on the worn palms of his hands. He looked around, head whipping back and forth in frenzy as he confirmed his aching suspicions.

He was on a frozen Reiden Lake.

His head fell at the realization, his eyes hammering shut as he suppressed the cocktail of feelings boiling in his consciousness. His jaw clenched as he shoved the memories into the recesses of his mind, resolving to deny all tethers this wretched place had on him.

He pushed himself off the ground with determination, his joints groaning in defiance as he stiffly tried to stretch himself out. He systematically brushed the snow from his clothing, sweeping himself over half-heartedly. He hastily shook out his hair, sending a spray of moist flakes everywhere.

He was flanked by trees in complete circumference, their white-topped bristles stark against the spotless look of the horizon. His location seemed to be at the focal point of the lake, the distance uniform as he spun on heel to observe his surroundings. Regardless of direction, it was still a sizeable hike. The quasi-picturesque look of the landscape was eerie to him; it contrasted patronizingly with the gloom of his memories.

Pulling his jacket tighter to his chilled bones, he decided to walk towards a patch of reedy trees to his right, the astronomical north. In his years of Boy Scouts, he had learned to follow Polaris in the evening sky; but it had been elusive to his juvenile eye, sightlessly searching in the infinite constellation of lights. Only when he had logged many an hour under the stars with a fair share of beautiful women did he truly learn to locate it with ease. He chanced a smirk at the ludicrous memories as he looked upon the faint scar of that burning beacon in the day's light, still leading him faithfully even during its true absence.

His footfall crunched the bed of snow beneath him, the tread of his boots marking his progress on the unblemished blanket.

He walked on for what felt like hours, relying solely on the forward momentum of his legs; trusting only his feet to lead him on.

But, he suddenly stopped, confusion streaking his features. His bewilderment was palpable, his eyebrows furrowing as he surveyed his surroundings. In all of that walking, it seemed he had not gone anywhere. The horizon was as far as it had been in every foreseeable course. When he turned around, he was alarmed to find that no prints had been left in his wake. But before he could consider the true peculiarity of the situation, he turned as he heard a soft shifting from behind him.

The sky instantaneously melted into uninterrupted grey, his surroundings blurred out by a suffocating haze. His emotions betrayed him as astonishment seized his heart, painting a picture of absolute terror across his face as he looked onward.

There stood a small boy, no more than seven, staring at him in solemn silence. The boy's piercing blue eyes shone menacingly behind a curtain of wet hair, his jaw set with utmost graveness.

This boy was _him_.

Before Peter could even react, the boy hoisted an ornate stone slab above his head, his eyes never wavering from their locked target on Peter's. His arms trembled under the weight of the stone; its massiveness visibly affecting the boy's… his, thin frame.

"You must go home now," he spoke in severe cadence, his rigid facade never faltering. His eyes lowered to Peter's midsection only for an instant, before rising back to their previous position.

Peter looked frantically to see what he had glanced at, and nearly jumped in fright to find a tight rope fastened around his trunk. The rope wound away from him and into the center of the stone, where the opposite end had been secured.

"No, no. You don't understand! I… you, us. Neither of us have to go!" he said assuredly, his voice tinged with desperateness. He yanked at the rope's fibers as he spoke, his distress evident in the mindless splay of his fingers.

"No. You must go home now. Good bye," his younger shade replied, his weak arms wobbling violently.

As Peter attempted to yelp out a furry of objective remarks, the boy finally threw the stone down into the icy expanse beneath their feet. As the weight hit the ice, the surface fractured into a thousand shards; the rock disappearing into the onyx depths of the water below.

Peter's feet were involuntarily knocked from beneath him as he slid without hitch towards the ominous hole. He wildly tried to grab anything around him, but his meager attempts were useless.

He was plunging to his death with no way to stop it.

The boy just stood there in his foreboding stiffness, watching wordlessly as Peter slid into the abyss.

At submergence, the light of the day faded into pitch-black oblivion. Peter held his breath as he could, but the stinging arctic water was smothering him alive. The lake was numbing him from the inside out. His brain fogged as he hysterically wheeled around, a fleet of bubbles swarming around him. The biting water leeched into his entirety, the very core of his bones going stiff. He was immobile in his fate, a defenseless victim to the thousands of miniscule daggers burying themselves deep within his flesh.

Just as he had truly acceptable his fate, Peter felt himself being towed up by a distant force. He blacked out in part, aware only of the sturdy pull at his collar.

As he breached the surface of the water he felt himself being heaved onto his back. Someone tenderly cradled his head as he sputtered, his lungs fiercely expelling water with efficiency. A pair of worried, roaming hands tugged at his clothing, feverishly checking at his wrists and his neck. A warm ear came to rest on his chest, the pulse of another's breath softly pressing inwards.

As his mind refocused, distorted sight came to center.

Looking down in calm concern was Olivia Dunham.

Her head was wreathed in the lax glow of an afternoon's beam, her curtain of hair framing his vision. Her smile was reflexive as she saw responsiveness in his eyes, her hands sliding to cup his cheek in her warm palm. His chilly flesh thawed under her affectionate touch, instantly heating him wholly.

She placed a lingering kiss on his lips, the velvety flesh further tugging him back to clarity. She held his face in her hands, smoothing the soaked strands of hair off his forehead. Her green eyes surveyed him in full, making sure he was completely alright.

When her eyes returned to is, she spoke finally, her voice a magnificent melody to his ringing ears.

"Welcome back, Peter."

...

Peter awoke with a start, violently jerking back into consciousness. His chest surged as it compensated for the rampant beat of his heart. He looked around him, taking in his surroundings.

The night was still, a serene haze draping over the unlit room. He was warm in his bed, securely wrapped up. When he looked upon the sleeping form of his wife, her gorgeous curves silhouetted in a sea of sheets, he instantly soothed.

He slumped onto his back thankfully, the mattress giving a gentle groan beneath him. He closed his eyes momentarily, grateful that the jarring dream had passed.

He opened his eyes when the sheets rustled lazily to his left as Olivia rolled to face him.

He turned on his side, draping his arms over her and pulling her into him protectively. She never opened her eyes but merely smiled, nuzzling her nose into his cheek before withdrawing as she nestled into him. Sleepiness was unmistakable on her features, smoothing out the lines of routine worry that were characteristically etched into her face.

"What's the matter?" she said groggily, her voice thick with sleep.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he said as he kissed her on the forehead.

For he was, without a doubt, home.

_fin!_

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><p><strong>AN****:** Yep. Okay. That. Hi. Reviews or something? I'd like that more than a Red Vines Milkshake (... eek, I think that would maybe actually be pretty awful. BUT LET'S PRETEND IT'S THE ELIXIR OF THE GODS).


	10. Friction

**A/N: **Oh god, I'm so embarrassed. It's been so long since I updated, I nearly forgot how to navigate the publishing toolbar. I'm an absolute moron.

BUT HERE WE GO, I'M SORRY I'M SO WILDLY INCONSISTENT IN EVERYTHING I DO. Maybe that's why my guilt leads me to write a FOUR THOUSAND, TWO HUNDRED AND ELEVEN WORD DRABBLE. THE ONLY PERSON WHO CALLS THAT A DRABBLE IS STEPHEN KING. Good grief.

But here you go, suggested to me by my good friend, tvnut014. I'm sorry as buns this took me so long to write, girl. Forgive me, for I have been sluggish in updating.

Always open for suggestions or prompts, maybe will end up doing accurately lengthed drabbles. Maybe I'll just continue writing baby novels, who knows. I'M JUST REALLY INTO TELLING A FULL STORY OR SOMETHING. *runs away*

*... But then also comes back to explain more things*

Please enjoy. Stay beautiful. Fringe on. Obligatory Viva la Fringe!

I had something else I wanted or need or had to say, but alas. My brain has not the capacity to do that any longer. Ah well. *Handflip*

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><p>One bulky, wool jacket, a heavy sweater atop a thermal undershirt, a pair of cotton dress pants, two pairs of socks, insulated boots, a scarf collection that could put any gypsy to shame, gloves and a knit beanie couldn't even keep the damp cold from permeating her bones on this invasively frigid night.<p>

The wind whipped at the ends of her hair, wildly jerking around her head like a ship's sails in an unrelenting tempest. All exposed skin fought a losing battle, the ragged gust burning a galaxy of taxed blood vessels into the rosy complexion of her cheeks. She yanked at the collar of her coat, attempting to shield her vulnerable neck from the constant sting of the bluster. She feebly tried to wet her lips, but the numbed flesh was unresponsive beneath the pleading of her tongue.

Olivia Dunham was no match for the unforgiving chill of Boston's winters.

She steadied herself on the pavement, anxiously awaiting disruption in the persistent drone of cars streaking by to cross the street. At an observed red light, she swiftly looked over both of her shoulders to check for security before bolting across the lanes. The fabric of her pants scrapped painfully against her frozen knees as she sprinted across the road, body condensed into itself to reduce any excessive air resistance. When she finally reached the solid, oak door of her destination, she sighed heavily in relief, a thick haze of steam rising from her lips like an evanescent white flag to Mother Nature. Surrendering had never felt so good.

As the door closed with a firm thud behind her, she reveled in the gentle atmosphere of the bar; the ambiance lighting, melodic clink of glass colliding in triumphant splendor, and the sturdy smell of weathered, varnished pine felt inviting against the inhospitable calamity of the raging world outside.

She sauntered to the peaceful solitude of a corner booth, heels drumming dutifully in her thankful stride. As she walked, she unwrapped herself like a swathed child, slinging layer after layer over her arms like an offering. When she reached the booth she slid in smoothly, placing the heap of clothing across from her like a companion. They had fought valiantly versus the onslaught of wintertime elements together, after all.

She smoothed out her wind-tousled hair, gathering it to the side, focus drawn away from the desperate protest of her thawing bones. She grabbed up her phone and jammed at the power button, rejoicing in the lethargic dimming of the screen as it faded to black. Tonight, she was off call. She slid it back into her pocket with gratification before rising and making her way over to the gentleman poised at the bar.

"Good evenin', miss. Can Ah get you's anythin'?" the older gentleman inquired as she approached, his prompts brimming with the underlying cordiality and wisdom of fifty years' worth of beer-soaked shirts and a jar filled with long-forgotten phone numbers scrawled on book corners. Olivia looked up and offered him a small smile, a concession to the inherent joy this man radiated like a biological obligation. A bona fide Santa Clause in a "You Had Me at Beer" novelty shirt.

"I'd love a couple of Macallans, twelve-year, if you have it," she replied kindly, eyes scanning the bottles against the wall.

"Ah ha, we gaht ahselves ah seasoned palate in owuh midst tonight," he announced to no one in particular, his native accent thick in the plump vowels of his words. She nodded her head bashfully in humble admission, earning a suave wink as the old man scuttled away to his fleet of glass mistresses. She leaned against the sleek wood of the bar as she waited, plucking a loose thread from her dark green sweater to pass time. When she looked up again, the man had returned, hovering two tumblers between the worn pads of his fingers.

"Hea', awn the house. It's a slow night, an' ya' braved the cold ta' come out, so. Chea's," he declared, urging her to take them from his hands with a suggestive flick of his wrist.

"Thank you very much," Olivia responded, gratefully cradling her spoils as she presented one final grin before turning away. She balanced the cups in her hand, maintaining an attention she reserved only for her work, and a heated game of Jenga.

She carefully placed them down on the table, barely hesitating after sitting to take a swig. She twirled the remaining contents around, the fluid amber luminous under the lamp light.

She let her mind wander as the wave of whiskey washed over her, licking at her blistered throat with the untamable loyalty of an exuberant puppy.

Olivia Dunham was content with the Hen Night she had chosen here in this bar.

She was thankful that she hadn't been pestered on the subject. The visions of fur-trimmed tiaras, gaudy heels, jewel-encrusted stripper spanks and a doting entourage was enough to call upon her dormant bile. She existed very contently in a concerto of static tones emitted by clunky lab equipment, crisp pant seams nipping at her ankles, and the thick stock of manila folders chafing her fingertips raw; the fragmented morning sun streaming through her blinds a welcome Nirvana.

She had spent a lifetime trading Rachel's tears for colossal phone bills, shameless courting for festering corpses and silk sheets with lovers for flannel blankets with loved ones. Willingly her reckless abandon had been sacrificed on the altar of maturity and conviction, only temporarily ignored in occasional scratchy pen tattoos on her inner wrist, or momentary, Metallica-inspired head-banging. Even when she had been at Northwestern, a time meant for drunken shenanigans and alcohol-produced amnesia, the idea of relinquishing her cautiously constructed control was less than desirable. Because, obviously so, puking in the gutter was something to aspire to.

It wasn't her style, and the pressure of social convention held no merit in persuading her otherwise for the event. She didn't need to be fawned over by a band of chirping women; a glass of alcohol to soothe her weary nerves and a night of seclusion did the trick. Not to mention the notion that stories about porcupine men and renegade shapeshifters did very little to improve her social life. But, it was a well-received trade off.

Rachel had tried to coax her into planning a Bachelorette Party that could keep a Kardashian married for years, but an Ella with a miserable ear infection and the Mt. Everest of take-home work had served as dissuasion. She had almost felt bad when her sister performed an Academy Award-worthy pout at her threshold, but the pass-off of a babbling Etta, a jammed diaper bag and the certainty of a night's worth of freedom immunized her better than any Flu Shot.

Astrid opted out of the harassment route, only prompting Olivia once on the matter before recognizing the futileness of any debate. Olivia did, however, receive a package from her of an impressively wrapped collection of dildos in the mail, enclosed with the message, "Why only have one Peter when you can have nine?" It was quite the enthralling gift to open at the kitchen table during breakfast. Peter had shot a full sip of coffee a very uninspiring two feet out of his nose in response to the assortment. The image of his gurgling sputter and darkened cheeks were enough to tide Olivia's amusement quotient for months.

Olivia chuckled at the thought, her throaty laugh echoing through the contents of her drink.

What a freshly made and boogered brew of coffee it had been.

But above all else, the reason she didn't need a Bachelorette Party was because unless God himself showed up to give her a lap dance, which would honestly be more terrifying than enjoyable, no man could hope to compare with Peter Bishop.

She was a heavy heart to carry, but he had won its favor with the sturdy support of his adorations:

The feel of his nose faithfully pressed into her cheek was always a reliable alarm clock; how every afternoon her long-abandoned coffee would disappear as she worked, only to be returned to her by the elusive Refill Fairy, leaving the soft whir of the lab's microwave running in its wake; when she turned from the click of the seatbelt in his car to fix the mirrors, her hand would hang uselessly in the air, undermined of their function by the consideration of previous adjustment; the small smile that would pull at her lips as she nestled the blanket that had been draped over her during a nap further under her chin.

The modest totem given to secure these affections glinted proudly on her ring finger; a triumphant announcement of promises to be made within the day.

Eat your heart out, George Clooney.

She returned to the bartender's post upon completion of her first two drinks, finding him wiping at a mug with measured force. Without looking up to see her, he nodded towards two more glasses sitting on the precipice of the counter, already filled to the brim with a darker, more luscious looking malt. The old man finally looked up and spoke, just as an uncertain perplexity etched itself into her features.

"Glenfa'clas, twenty-five yea's, frum my own cahlection. You's seem like a good gal who knows n' respects huh whiskey. Take it an' enjoy." His gaze then dropped unquestioningly back to his task, leaving no room for discussion or debate. Olivia's inaudible sentiments flashed in Technicolor across her cheeks, before she seized the glasses and turned away. When back in her own secure nook, she reverently took a drink. It was a full-bodied drink, powerfully robust at its apex, but mind-numbingly smooth throughout, and by no means overpowering. Its underlying nuttiness was prominent and steadfast, with an unyielding smokiness that colored her insides as masterfully as Picasso. She drank it with a voracious greed, finding succor in its piercing familiarity.

How miraculous it was that this specific brand of whiskey was named anything but "Peter Bishop."

As her mind idled, she scanned the room, surveying the sparse patrons scattered intermittently. A large, Ogre-like brute was perched precariously on a stool, slurring the lyrics of "Too Much Booty in the Pants," swaying like a tree in a hurricane. A young, timid looking man sat alone at a table, his glasses balanced at the end of his nose while he tried with what looked like little success to decipher the appeal of "Fifty Shades of Grey." His face scrunched up and he scoffed after reading what was assumed to be a particularly heinous part, masking it with a quick sip of his Appletini. A couple was sitting in a booth close by discussing the healing powers of Australian actresses, the two women a fury of waving arms, French squabbling and drunken squeals.

Her eye was then drawn to a man hunched at the complete opposite end of the bar, lazily pawing at an empty Labatt's bottle in his broad hands. His back was arched in a contemplative way, the burden of a running marquee of thoughts settled in the crevices of his furrowed brow. His hair was coiffed in an effortless way, contrasting deliciously with the rugged elegance of his frame. He was as substantial a Redwood, his coarse bark softened by the sandpaper of time and experience. His eyes were a tantalizing hue, the song of the Sirens murmured in his blinking lashes. He tapped his toe lightly to an imperceptible pulse, keeping time with the steady thump of his shoe.

In fleeting decision, finding a steadfast supporter in a belly of booze, she collected her belongings and confidently strode over to the man. It was her Bachelorette Party after all; wasn't she supposed to make rash decisions?

As she progressed she lost her footing; a timid Dorothy approaching the chambers of the Wizard without the benefit of a Medal of Courage. But, her resolve was stronger than her tentativeness, so she pressed on.

She was determined to pay attention entirely to that man behind the curtain.

When she reached his table he looked up at her, his stern expression melting into one of curiosity. She set her clothing on the back of her chair and took a seat, the cushion sighing under her weight. His posture was quizzical, but only for a moment longer before his features curved, betraying his self-assurance.

"So, I don't think I've ever seen you before in this bar," he remarked, his arms coming to rest on the table. He tilted his face to the side in an inquisitive air, encouraging her to confide in him.

She paused, challenging the cunning glint in his gaze before replying.

"No… this, isn't a regular stop of mine. That's why, I figured, it was worth, making the best of it." Her response was dignified, calculated in its intents despite the abundance of alcohol in her system.

"Ah, well. Thank you for your time. Anyway, you got a boyfriend?" He asked, eyebrow rising coyly with his inquiry. Her eyes narrowed at the question, contemplating the proper comeback.

"Hmmm. … I guess I don't," she concluded in his forwardness, matching his relaxed lean against the table's surface as an insuppressible smile quirked at her lips. "What about you? What brings you here on a brisk night like this?" the keenness palpable in her voice.

"I was meant to have plans for this evening, but it appears I'm a rather dull guy without direction or my usual company." He shrugged off the statement, reclining back into his seat.

"Well, here's to solidarity for solitude," she countered bravely, giving a sharp nod and raising an invisible challis skyward.

His rumbling chuckle was a welcome addition to her toast, a softened expression sending her stomach flipping more impressively than a Chinese gymnast. Thank you, inebriation.

Just as Olivia was feeling relaxed enough to press on, she felt the force of a bladder long disregarded. She almost rolled her eyes at its impeccable timing to reliably spoil a moment.

"I'm sorry… I, I have to pee," she declared apologetically, her brow creasing in admission. The man shook his head and clicked his tongue mockingly, bringing her back to her years of Elementary indiscretions.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you to go to the potty before you leave the house?" he chastised as he rolled up the sleeves of his grey sweater, his smirk scorching her with its seductive undertones, even in an anecdote about urinary habits.

"I believe I missed that lecture from my parents! Must've been right after the 'Don't Let Random Men at Bars Bust Your Chops' lesson," she teased, rising from her seat.

"Well, be safe, sweetheart," he said casually, juxtaposed with a bow of his head like a classic Western cowboy.

She turned on the spot at the comment, her eyebrows divulging her surprise at the connotations. It brought back some rather unpleasant memories, but she knew he meant well, and rapidly adjusted to a reassuring smile. The steady cadence of his foot-tapping resumed as she sauntered off.

Olivia followed the remarkably lengthy hallway around its twists and turns to locate the bathroom, reading the signs hurriedly in the dimmed light.

This labyrinth must have been crafted by the hand of David Bowie himself.

The homogenous wood-paneling of the floor and walls only exacerbated her frustration, more efficiently serving as an example of what would appear in a museum dedicated to the effects of time and throw-up on pine than leading her to a toilet.

As she rounded a corner, she found herself in front of the door to the back alley. She was not _remotely _drunk enough to accept this as a viable option.

She also didn't want to have to instruct Walter to changes her vows to **"**for better, for worse, or for when I have to piss in a shady dump of an alley because I was particularly fond of those pants."

'Til death, or a ruptured bladder, do us part.

"You either have a very poor perception of what a bathroom is, or I'm doing pretty damn awful tonight," proclaimed a voice behind her.

It's a shame hospitals couldn't administer surprise for resuscitation; for her startle was sufficiently more powerful than any defibrillator. If this were a Tom and Jerry cartoon, she would have blown clean out of her shoes and into the stratosphere.

With a hand over her heart she whipped around to see the man standing near, arms crossed over his chest in a remarkably accurate Genie impression.

"Pardon?" she replied exasperatedly, still trying to calm her heart from its frenzied gallop.

"I said, I must be doing a spectacularly piss-poor job courting you if you're running away only after five minutes of conversation and one imaginary toast, especially on an Arctic night like this," he retorted calmly, the tempo of his voice soothing her sprinting pulse. His arms fell from their firm clamp over his chest to burrow into his pockets, taking the confident stance of a cowboy in a shootout.

"Oh lord. If you have any mercy, please do NOT mention piss again," she whined through a laughed.

"Well, I am not a merciful man," he said coyly, taking a few steps closer, "but I do drive a hard bargain." His eyebrow nearly hit his hairline in suggestion, the whip of the metaphorical gauntlet being thrown down audible as a gunshot.

It was a game of chicken, their plumage fanned out in the most vivacious display of seduction. He took his time, inching towards her with self-assured swagger, building a case for his boiling appeal in every unhurried step. The stamp of his sneakers punched authoritatively with each step, diminishing the strength of her stony façade. Only when his chest lightly skimmed hers, whispers of cotton against wool, did he stop. He cocked his chin to the side, jaw set in defiance.

And that fucking grin.

"And… what would that be?" She countered, answering him in full with the slightest, but entirely intentional, press of her chest against his.

"Well, first of all…" he cooed, trailing off. He raised his hands from his pockets, backs ghosting the curvature of her breasts as he snaked his arms around her torso. He drew constellations into the skin of her back with the kindest of touches, giving Cassiopeia and Pegasus home in the Milky Way between her shoulder blades. He mapped her back muscles, an expert cartographer discovering new valleys and plains with the brush of his calloused fingertips. He traced the ridge of her belt with his thumbs, before hooking his index fingers through her pant loops and yanking her hips into a mind-splitting grind.

Through his best efforts her fierce gaze never left his, locked in a heated battle of bodacity. But, it was her turn to take the reins.

Like a serpent in predatory pursuit, her hands slithered up his body, reveling in the nearly imperceptible shiver that rang through his body. She did her best to destroy his stoic front, roaming freely over his torso with nimble fingers. Her left hand gripped at his wrist, anchoring his tow at her belt with the insistence of her grasp. Her right crept up, idling at the neck of his sweater. She curled her index finger around the collar, gently tugging his face to hers.

Their faces were mere centimeters apart, her gaze alternating from his heavy-lidded eyes to the eager flesh of his lips. As she sluggishly moved in, mouth open and quirking with lustful promise, she stopped abruptly, tilting her head.

"… Secondly?" she inquired, licking her lips.

He stifled a chuckle, it catching in his throat, masquerading as an unimpressed snort.

"Well, I say we get the Hell out of here. You see, I'm a man of science, so I have some ideas," he countered, his voice a rugged growl in the silence of the hall.

"Oh? Please enlighten me, Einstein," her eyes narrowing in artificial dismissiveness.

"Well, you see, when two surfaces in contact, moving relative to one another," he paused. His hands moved upward from their pull on her pants, her hand releasing his in an obliging motion. In one fell swoop he gathered her hair over her shoulder, leaving her neck entirely vulnerable. He closed in with assumed purpose; but, right as their lips nearly converged, he shifted his direction. Languidly, he brushed his jaw against hers, the dark stubble on his cheeks scraping her nerves raw.

"Friction, between the two surfaces occurs," he whispered into her ear. He kissed the spot behind it, instantaneous goose bumps blooming from her skin.

As he retreated, he peppered her jawline with pecks, sharp pops erupting in his wake. He faced her then, full-on, stare once again locked on hers.

"Which is then converted into kinetic energy, and _heat_," emphasis coloring his words as he smugly finished his thought.

She then brought her hands up to his face, cradling his cheeks in her palms, rubbing circles into the bristled flesh.

"Oh JESUS Peter, did that actually work for you once? Please tell me some poor soul wasn't done in by elementary Physics," she chastised, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Yes, it did! McKenzie Lambracht, during my little time at MIT," proudly announcing his successes with a grin, hands wrapping around her waist.

"That actually makes me want to throw up in my mouth. Well, here's a little science for you," she mocked. He smiled, eyes brightening in surprise.

"If you think that is going to work to get me into bed tonight, you are attached to another object by an inclined plane, wrapped helically around an axis," she finished with a nod.

"… Well, damn. That's not the type of screwed I wanted to be. What are my chances if I let you borrow my thermal gloves for the drive home?" he offered, eyes narrowed in survey.

She stood there for a moment, bringing her hands from his face to enact the Thinker pose in fake contemplation.

"Hmmm. I think that might do it. But, we'll have to hurry. Before I got up from the table it was 11:17, and we'd have to get it in before midnight," she proclaimed with finality.

"And why is that?!" he cried with real curiosity.

"It's bad luck to see your bride on the day of your wedding. Didn't you tell me that earlier today, Mr. Romanticism?"

He then bent down suddenly, securing one arm underneath her knees and nestling the other below her shoulder blades before lifting her off the ground as she tried to yell in protest.

"WOMAN, I HAVE NO TIME FOR YOUR BANTER. IT'LL BE AT LEAST TWENTY MINUTES ON I-93, NOT INCLUDING THE SPRINTS TO AND FROM THE CAR AND ESCAPING FROM THIS MAZE," he shouted as he ran, Olivia bouncing in his arms.

"PETER. PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW. IT'LL BE EASIER TO NAVIGATE THIS LABYRINTH ON TWO FEET, AND THERE'S NO NEED TO TIRE YOUR THRESHOLD-CARRYING ARMS FOR TOMORROW," she yelled over the sound of his thunderous stride.

He paused for a second to consider it, before placing Olivia back onto the ground.

"I knew I kept you around for more than just your beauty and charm," he joked, offering up his hand to her.

She took it gratefully, fingers entwining with his before they continued their progression through the halls. He smiled as they started walking, but his hand was yanked back as Olivia stayed anchored in place. He turned back to her, eyebrows wrinkled in confusion.

"Peter… who says we need to go home? We've got a car," she stated matter-of-factly, a smile breaking the firm line of her mouth.

He stood there for a moment, but only a short instant before he gathered her into his arms. He pushed her backward with sufficient force, a loud bang ringing out as Olivia's back hit the wall behind her. He kissed her aggressively, teeth clashing as her arms jerked around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. Olivia's back arched into his form, melding muscles with ferocity. Their faces slid together, all crazed tongues and swollen lips nipping at a chaotic dash. Peter snatched Olivia's face in his hands as she seized his hair in hers, opposing forces duking it out for wild dominance. Fingers curled with toes, tongues yielding to teeth, stolen kiss stealing breath.

"You," Peter attempted through kisses, "are," failing miserably, "the BEST," he finally finished, cupping her face in his hands affectionately.

"No, I'm practical and horny," she corrected, a smirk bending on her teased lips.

"Well, I can get behind that. I just won't look at you come midnight. You can drive home. Deal?"

"Deal."

They claimed each other's hands once more, kicking off as they did so to sprint down the hall.

As they finally reached the main room, they quickly dressed; a relay race of flying gloves and spilled sweaters.

As Olivia did the final clasp of her coat up, Peter swiped his scarf off the table, swinging it over her head to pull her in. They smiled into the kiss, quickly breaking off with an audible pop as they paraded out the door and into the night.

Maybe it wasn't so cold after all.

_fin!_

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><p><strong>AN: **Did I actually even get any of you with these shenanigans? Probably not. Review if your sweet buns are so inclined. Hum de dum.


	11. Sandwiches

**A/N: **I cannot even promise that I will get better at updating one day, because it probably won't be a thing. BUT! SOMETIMES I WILL COME THROUGH, LIKE A SHINING RAY OF LIGHT IN AN OTHERWISE STORMY DAY.

OR LIKE A FART IN A LIBRARY.

Stay beautimous, human folk of Fringeitude.

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><p>For every calculated gliding stroke made across the bread, spreading the peanut butter into an impressively uniform coat, a coinciding bang punched through the hard wood flooring upstairs. When they had come in isolated bursts, Olivia had ignored them with ease, concentrating on constructing a sandwich worthy of a showing in the Louvre next to the lamenting Caravaggios and stoic da Vincis; but, as the syncopated series of disharmonic thuds converged to a hammering rhythm, she lost her artistic edge and assassin's precision to boot.<p>

"Mommy, is Daddy still doing his dinosaur walk? We watched Jurassic Park a week ago," Etta chirped, her pudgy, spoon-wielding hand hovering over her cereal bowl in mid-comment.

"I think Daddy may be losing his marbles. You finish your Cheerios, and I'll be right back, okay?" Olivia cooed, setting down her weapon in the war against lumpy, inadequate sandwiches to investigate.

Etta nodded politely, directing her attention to her breakfast as Olivia turned from the counter, wiping the lingering crumbs from her hands on the seat of her pants. She ascended the stairs without urgency, knowing fully what underlie the frenzied symphony of slamming drawers and clattering cabinet doors.

When she reached their bedroom, she lazily stood in the doorway, her shoulder an anchor in a stance called, "The Informed, Detecting Wife Knows All."

"Peter Bishop, you step away from the sock drawer. I don't think IKEA accepts early morning displays of craziness as a feasible warranty option," she quipped, a smirk creasing her cheeks.

Peter looked over his shoulder, hands stalling to momentarily abandon his vicious carding through socks, the ever-present crease between his brows reflecting obvious distress.

"Olivia, I _need_ to wear the right socks. This is an incredibly important event!" he stated definitively, spinning back to focus on his task.

Olivia sighed, straightening up and unfolding her arms as she crossed the room, only to wrap them around Peter's trunk from behind. She laced her fingers together over his heart, snug against him as he continued to hunt in distress.

"Hey, you big oaf, will you calm down?" She warmly joked.

"Olivia, I can't mess up her first day of Kindergarten! What if I become the Dad with the Crazy Socks?" he nearly whimpered, childlike concern evident in his tone.

Olivia laughed despite herself, stifling what she could as to avoid teetering into the territory of condescending belly laughs, the reassuring alto of her voice instantaneously untightening the muscles in his back.

"Then I suppose that would be pretty tame on the Bishop Scale of Oddness," she paused, resting her cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt.

"Plus, if you mess this one up, you have approximately one-hundred and seventy-nine more chances, give or take a few snow days," she added supportively. His apprehension began melting away, encouraged by her rationality.

"Hey! I hafta be to school in thirty-seven minutes!" a jingling, muffled voice yelled from below, cutting in before Peter could properly respond.

As they both chuckled, Olivia unwrapped herself from his wiry form, sidestepping to place a chaste kiss on his stubbled cheek before walking out the door.

Peter shook his head, a slight grin blossoming as he looked at the mound of socks before him.

"Go with the beige ones. They match your shoes," Peter heard, turning as she popped back into the door's frame only for a moment. "Now put them on and get your ass into the car, Bishop." She quirked her head to the side and raised a cheeky eyebrow before disappearing from sight.

As the three of them rushed out the door and to the car, backpacks and lunchboxes in hand, Olivia caught a flash of pink and green argyle as Peter buckled Etta into her seat.

Captain Crazy Socks to the rescue.

_fin!_

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><p><em><em>Welp, not so much making out in a bar, but... something, right? Yeah? No? Stephen King could write better with a quill in his asscheeks? Fine.


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